


meet me in the afterglow

by Pepperish



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Panic Attacks, This might be hard to read if you are dealing with:, also, i think???, unresolved relationship issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pepperish/pseuds/Pepperish
Summary: “Raven is worried about you.” Bellamy says from the kitchen, where he is making dinner. “Said you’re shutting her out.”“I’m not!” She’s sitting on the couch, legs tucked under herself, some Netflix show on that she’s only marginally aware of. “I tried telling her that today, but you know how Raven is when she thinks she’s on to something.”Clarke hears his huffed laugh, soft, and the ends of her lips curl up as well.“Yeah, I know,” he agrees, easy, “but you should try to give her something.”“Why isn’t she worried about you?”“Because I already got drunk on her couch, sobbed all over her and puked on her shower, so I’m recovering or something.”(OR: The Modern!AU in which we deal with Clarke's depression and its effects. Kind of.)





	meet me in the afterglow

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, please take notice this fic is written from Clarke's POV in a moment in which her mental state is definitely not good. We're talking severe depression and anxiety and there's a panic attack in one of the scenes, so please, PLEASE be careful if you're triggered by any of these. It's not an easy fic and I'd hate to cause anyone any kind of discomfort.
> 
> If you like to explore these themes, then I think you might enjoy my take on Clarke's mental state. Since there's little distance between her perspective and the narrative of the story, keep in mind things are most likely warped. If you go ahead, you'll understand.
> 
> In any case, I wish you all a happy reading. And if you, by any chance, have feedback you want to share, I'll be forever grateful!
> 
> <3
> 
> Title and lyrics from Taylor Swift's song "Meet me in the afterglow".

_Hey, it's all me, in my head_  
_I'm the one who burned us down_  
_ But it's not what I meant_  
_ I’m sorry that I hurt you_  
_ (I don't wanna do) I don't wanna do this to you_  
_ (I don't wanna lose) I don't wanna lose this with you_  
_ I need to say, hey, it's all me, just don't go_  
_ Meet me in the afterglow_

The clock marks 3:05 in red when her knees make his mattress dip and Bellamy jerks awake.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me.” Clarke whispers, almost slurring from exhaustion. His body sags back into bed while she shucks off her clothes and curls around him. Ice-cold arms snake under his. Around them everything’s dark, save from the clock. 3:06.

“Is everything ok?”

“Mhm.” Clarke’s aware her entire body is stiff, clearly signaling whatever it is, is most definitely _not_ ok. “I’m just so tired.”

She buries her face in his back, pulling a deep breath. His bed smells like always, cheap detergent and his boy scent. She presses her eyes shut forcefully, trying to keep a hold on herself. Her ears are buzzing uncomfortably. The world seems unreal, so far away it could be nothing.

“Clarke.”

She knows he expects something from her, he’s trying to tell her something. Can hear it in Bellamy’s voice, but her brain can’t process the meaning. Her throat doesn’t work and her limbs refuse to move, so she just stays in place.

“I don’t need anything else,” she manages to say.

He’s silent for a moment and Clarke’s so, so scared of what he might say that she can’t breathe. Her lungs scream at the lack of air, anxiety and anticipation coiling in her stomach. Then, Bellamy’s muscles relax and he pulls her hand, pressing his back into her chest. It may be a step too far, but Clarke can feel his skin against hers, sharing his warmth readily, and the relief is so profound, Clarke is asleep before she knows it.

“Clarke.”

Raven’s voice is judgmental. Clarke wants to roll her eyes until she sees the back of her head.

“I can’t talk about this right now.”

She flips through the several patient charts on her clipboard. Her scrubs are hanging loosely from her body now, as if meant to fit someone else, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe she’s not the same person anymore.

“Have you looked yourself in the mirror lately?”

“I’m fine.” She dismisses, finding the page she was looking for. Raven puts a hand on her forearm and Clarke looks at the other woman for the first time since the start of this conversation.

“This isn’t going to end well.”

“There’s nothing to end,” Clarke shrugs and smiles reassuringly, a practiced movement if a brittle one. “All there was to end already did. This is a start over.”

“This is _not_ a start over,” Raven starts protesting, but Clarke’s done with this conversation.

“I have to go, we can talk about this later.”

Raven’s hand fall from her arm. She doesn’t try to stop Clarke from leaving, doesn’t say anything else, and for that Clarke’s grateful.

There’s nothing to talk about.

**Bellamy Blake:** Did you leave your list?

The text is waiting for her when she grabs her phone. There’s a cup of black coffee in her hands and her fingers are shaking a little. This shift has been excruciating, but Clarke only has to hold on for a couple more hours, then she can sleep for two whole days before she has to be back.

**Me:** No but I dont need anything but tea, pls

**Bellamy Blake:** You can’t live on tea and instant noodles, Clarke.

**Bellamy Blake:** I’m getting you at least yogurt and cherry tomatoes.

**Me:** Ok, thnks

She’s stuffing her phone back in her scrubs pockets when she feels it vibrate again.

**Bellamy Blake:** Are you ok?

**Me:** Yeah, nbd

**Me:** Long shift is all

**Me:** Will see you home tonight?

**Bellamy Blake:** Sure

Clarke puts the phone away and leans her head against the wall, counts her breaths in and out.

Everything is ok. Really.

“Raven is worried about you.” Bellamy says from the kitchen, where he is making dinner. “Said you’re shutting her out.”

“I’m not!” She’s sitting on the couch, legs tucked under herself, some Netflix show on that she’s only marginally aware of. “I tried telling her that today, but you know how Raven is when she thinks she’s on to something.”

Clarke hears his huffed laugh, soft, and the ends of her lips curl up as well.

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees, easy, “but you should try to give her something.”

“Why isn’t she worried about _you_?”

“Because I already got drunk on her couch, sobbed all over her and puked on her shower, so I’m recovering or something.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Bellamy’s coming out now, both plates in hand and two beers tucked under his left arm. Clarke gets up to help him and they both sit on the floor, on the coffee table, like always. A regular Thursday at home. Something twists inside her chest, but she’s quick to push it away.

“Is it, though?” His tone is breezy, but his eyes smolder her. Bellamy has always been like this, which is part of the problem. Too perceptive. “This is almost slipping off you,” he says after she stays quiet, a finger adjusting the strap of her tank top back on her shoulder.

“I think I need to buy new clothes.”

His eyes stay on her as she starts to eat, so Clarke makes a motion indicating the tv and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“So, how was your day?”

“The same as every day when you teach seventeen year olds.” Then, Bellamy launches another of his student’s anecdotes. It quiets Clarke’s mind as she eats around the edges of her plate.

Everything is ok. It is.

“What are you doing?”

Bellamy’s voice seem to echo in the dark of their living room. There’s something about the middle of the night that makes everything seem so _loud_.

“Nothing,” Clarke shrugs, a small smile on her lips as she turns to look at him. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He measures her up for a while. Leaves for the kitchen and Clarke resumes watching the city lights below.

“Here,” he’s offering a water bottler, because of course he is. Clarke gives him a look, bites her lip to keep herself from laughing, but accepts it anyway.

“Thanks, Bell.”

The pause before he seats down next to her on the balcony is so short, Clarke’s sure no one else would notice the hesitancy. But of course she does. She’s watching him on the corner of her eye now. She notices he had put on a shirt, white and threadbare, hugging his arms and chest, whereas he usually sleeps shirtless.

“Did I wake you?”, she asks, softly.

“Not really. I don’t know if I was really sleeping or in-between.”

“Too much in your head?”

“Yeah…” He’s staring ahead too.

“Are _you_ going to ask me how I’m feeling too?”

Bellamy seems a little chastised at that. A bittersweet smile curves his lips upwards and, Clarke has to admit, it _is_ a little funny.

“Not really,” he says. She pulls a drink from her bottle, feels his eyes over her. After a beat, he adds: “I don’t know what answer I’d be looking for.”

Clarke nods, mulls it over.

“We’re doing the right thing, right?”

“About what? You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Living together. Being friends.”

“What, you don’t want to?” She feels him closing off and a heavy sigh almost escapes her. This is why she keeps her mouth shut, honestly.

There’s always too many implications about everything.

“Of course I do, asshole.” She’s being selfish, but can’t help it. Clarke’s always softer in the middle of the night, when it’s easier to pretend things don’t have consequences. Bellamy’s shoulders relax, drop a little, and he runs a hand through his messy curls.

“Then I guess so.”

“Is that what you want too?”

“I don’t have a fucking clue what I want.” He laughs at himself, Clarke turns to face him fully, revels in the laugh lines around his eyes. He didn’t use to have those. “But I do love being friends with you. I definitely want to keep that.”

“Even when everything is fucked up?”

“Isn’t that when we need friends the most?”

Bellamy’s hand covers hers, a firm and familiar pressure that sends tingles up her arm.

“You’re my best friend.” Clarke knows she wouldn’t say that if it weren’t for the dark, but it’s true. If there’s a life without Bellamy Blake, she has no interest in knowing what’s that like.

“You, too.”

When Clarke arrives at Monty’s place, everyone is already there.

There’s music coming off of Jasper’s stereo and the air smell thickly of weed, which means they’re smoking on the living room again, even though the landlady is sure to complain tomorrow.

She didn’t really want to come, but it’s not like things were going to get better while she hid home, so she forced herself into some cute jeans and braced for the evening.

“Hey, Clarke! C’mon, we’re starting Mario Kart!” Harper is the first one to spot her and call her over. She beams and engulfs Clarke in a hug as soon as she’s within arm’s reach. Clarke’s grateful for the easy affection, even if Harper’s giddiness is a little too much.

Miller and Monty are also on the couch with her, controls already in hand, so instead of going around saying hello to the others, she just settles against the other girl to watch them play for a while.

It takes a bit of effort to evade people’s questioning eyes, but Clarke handles it like a champ. She darts between light topics and fun interactions, always leaving the conversation before it gets a chance to get too real.

Later on, she’s roped into a conversation about the pedantry of academia with Brian and Miller when she hears Echo come in with Emori and Murphy. A shock of something runs through her body, strong enough to make her want to bolt.

_It’s ok_, Clarke tells herself even though any attention she was paying to the conversation is now gone. She _likes _Echo, Clarke doesn’t understand why she’s so unnerved about seeing the other woman now of all times. The gin and tonic in her hand disappears a little faster after that anyway.

Her alcohol consumption only progresses further as she starts playing drinking games with Emori.

She might be swaying a little on her feet when Echo places a hand on her shoulder. Clarke doesn’t jump, but her stomach does a weird somersault again.

“How are you, Clarke?”

“I’m good, really.” She pulls a drink from her beer – she doesn’t know when she got that bottle, wasn’t she drinking gin? – and smiles. Echo’s pretty in an almost feral way, but her face isn’t smug. If anything, she looks earnest. “Thanks for asking.”

The other woman laughs, almost delighted.

“I never knew you to be so polite.”

Clarke laughs too.

“Sorry. People just have been asking me that a lot lately. I don’t know what to say that will convince you guys that I’m not about to catch on fire spontaneously.”

“Oh, I know,” Echo smirks, “you’re built tougher than that.”

Clarke’s grateful and feels herself relax for the first time. Even Murphy, Emori and Harper, who were all aggressively pretending nothing was different, are still weird around her. Too bright, too forceful, too unnatural. Octavia just outright despises her. Echo’s neutral candor is refreshing.

“Was it like that with you too?”

“No. But then again, it was always different with you.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say to that, because it’s true, so she just nods.

They talk a little bit about Echo’s life, how her martial arts studio is doing, about the new teacher she just hired, Indra, who’s excellent, but also completely frightening. It’s fun. Then Murphy shows up and it’s back to drinking until Clarke has barely enough to coordination to stand up by herself.

“You’re really shit-faced aren’t you?” She can hear the laughter in Bellamy’s voice. Clarke tries to slap him away, but her hands find nothing. She doesn’t bother opening her eyes from her place against a wall.

“Shut up.”

“C’mere,” his large hands reach for her waist, transferring her weight from the wall to his shoulder with practiced ease. “Can you walk home?”

“I can, I can…” Bellamy chuckles again when she slurs. It’s not fair, usually Clarke can drink every single one of them under the table. She’s a great drinker! She tells him just that.

“Of course you are, babe.”

Her chest tingles again, but she knows this is not from the alcohol.

“Hmmm…”

“What?”

“N’thing.”

“Oh, c’mon, tell me.” Clarke opens her eyes.

From where her head is leaning on his shoulder, she can only partially see his jaw and the edges of his lips. The blue cotton under her face is so soft, Clarke could sleep there.

“Babe” is all she says. Bellamy’s arm around her flex out of reflex.

“Oh.”

They are on the streets now, somehow. Clarke’s hobbling on, almost being half-carried by Bellamy. The only reason they can get home at all is that they live less than two blocks away.

“I liked it.” She slurs. She slurs it and her step falters, but Bellamy supports her gracefully, even though he’s not sober himself. “I like it.”

“Clarke.”

“Don’t ‘Clarke’ me. I’m tired of people Clarke-ing me.” With great effort, Clarke lifts her head, trying to glare at him. “You can’t ‘Clarke’ me.”

“Go back to bragging about drinking.”

“Don’t wanna.” Clarke resettles on his shoulder, nausea threatening to overwhelm her. “I might get sick.”

“We’re almost home. C’mon, you can do it.”

“Hmm, no.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Say it.”

“Clarke.”

“Say it.”

She stops, dig her heels in the pavement. Tries with all her might to remain in place, stubborn.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“Say. It.”

Bellamy’s sigh is exasperated. Her vision is blurry, but Clarke can see him running a hand through his hair; he grips the inky strands and her fingers itch.

When he speaks again, his tone is low and rough, like the words are tearing at his throat.

“We’re almost home, babe.”

She nods forcefully feeling her eyes fill with tears, the world getting even blurrier around her.

“Thank you.”

Clarke stops fighting him, lets him take her inside.

“Do you need to puke?”

“No, I just wanna go to bed.”

Bellamy helps her out of her jeans and into bed with careful, ever-present hands. She misses him the moment he stands up and stops touching her.

Her mouth is running of its own volition.

“Stay.”

She can’t see him, but can feel his warring instincts. Bellamy can never leave her alone when she’s like this, his base protector instincts so overpowering it could kill him. Clarke wonders, idly, if she’s still killing him, if he’s dying like she’s dying. A little bit every day.

“At some point, we’ll have to stop sleeping together.”

Clarke is only mildly aware of him taking off his own clothes before sliding under her comforter with her.

“Why?” She whines, frowning. What a terrible idea.

“Because you broke up with me, babe.”

His voice is so _sad_ it breaks her heart.

“Nothing makes sense.”

“I know.”

Bellamy pulls her closer to his chest, and she’s asleep.

They first kissed on a Thursday.

Clarke’s not sure how or why she remembers such a mundane detail, but it’s always there, on the back of her mind. Something that springs up every Thursday, like, oh, it’s been another week. The silent question of _how many more to go before this ends_ somewhere underwater.

She breaks up with Bellamy on a Thursday too. Maybe she was reaching for balance, symmetry. Maybe she thought it’d be poetic.

He asks her why, relentlessly, like she knew he would. It’s unfair to Bellamy that this is how Clarke decided to go about it, careless, as if she was this cavalier about them the whole time.

She says, _I don’t think I’m ready for this kind of commitment, this is going too fast. I don’t know how to love like this_. _You love too much, my heart can’t stretch that far_.

She does not say she had to watch Lexa die. She does not mention both her parents are dead. And Wells. She does not tell him everything she loves dies, that her fingertips are stained black from them. She does not tell him she wakes up and wonders why the hell is her body even alive anymore. Does not tell him she can’t afford to be any kind of happy – not with everything that happened to her, it’s not fair.

By all means, Bellamy should hate her.

He’d be right to.

(She hates herself, so)

Still, he doesn’t. His eyes are hard, burning, but he knows her too well. Knows from the stubborn tilt of her chin that this is all he’s getting from her. Bellamy sees her cracks and all the ways she’s in ruins – and ruining herself further.

Clarke expects this to be the final straw. For him to finally let go of her dead weight.

Bellamy doesn’t. He actively refuses to.

So their friendship remains. They choose to keep living together.

Clarke cut the strings, everything that tied them together, with a blunt knife. Love is weakness, she can’t afford to make Bellamy weak.

He keeps a firm grasp on her. She’s still waiting.

When Clarke wakes up the next morning with the stale taste of hangover clinging to her tongue, Bellamy’s nowhere in sight. The apartment is completely silent.

She doesn’t have work today, so she lingers.

For a few hours she does nothing but stare at the ceiling, her thoughts so loud it’s like the walls are screaming around her. When it gets too much, she forces herself to take a shower, washes the grease out of her hair, tries to quiet her mind.

The entire day goes by as if in suspended animation, a weird buzz inhabiting under Clarke’s skin.

Hours tick by while she paces around like a trapped animal, the keys to her cage hanging uselessly around her neck.

The sky is already darkening outside when her phone vibrates.

**Bellamy Blake:** Won’t be coming home tonight. There’s food in the fridge.

Something in her chest falls apart at once.

It’s just a text, it shouldn’t mean anything. She’s reading too much between too few lines.

But alone in her room, Clarke sobs.

Her fingers are shaking again.

Clarke flexes her hands, stretching them as far as they can go. Glares as if she could intimidate the trembling into submission.

There are wispy strands of hair that keep falling out of her braid.

Her entire body itches.

The scrubs she’s wearing is hanging so loose off her frame, Clarke had to pinch it with bobby pins before leaving her room.

_Are you trying to disappear?_, a voice too much like Bellamy’s echoes in her head.

He hasn’t said anything about her sudden weight loss, more obvious every day. He hasn’t said much about anything lately.

It’s not that he’s not speaking to her, but rather that he’s never home anymore. When Clarke leaves for work, Bellamy’s already gone. When she comes home, it’s to an empty apartment.

She wants to say something – scold him, call him a coward. _We were supposed to be friends_.

But she can’t, not really. She was waiting for this, after all. The moment he’d realize he’s better off.

The first few days, Bellamy still left her lunch packed for her over the stove, but as she continuously failed to pick it up, he stopped.

Raven is almost unbearable, hovering around her during meal times when their shifts coincide, prodding her incessantly until she makes a plate of something other than stale crackers and a cheese slice. Clarke thinks Bellamy is behind that, too, but she doesn’t want to ask and Raven doesn’t mention it.

Sometimes she stares at her phone, something inside her aching to text him first. She never had to do that before. Bellamy’s always _there_.

Reaching out isn’t Clarke’s specialty.

Besides, if he wants distance – needs to put as much space between himself and her – shouldn’t Clarke allow him that?

When she can’t sleep, she locks her bedroom door.

Slipping out of her bed and into his is just too easy, but Clarke’s not sure these days whether he’s sleeping in his room or not. Bellamy stopped warning her when she didn’t answer. It’s probably for the better.

Sometimes she wants to slip out of her own skin.

Sometimes she also wants to sit on the balcony and just watch the city lights in the distance. Walk out of her room and breathe in the cold night air. Fill her lungs until nothing else fits inside her. Wait for him to come out of his room too, sit beside her on the tiled floor, bring some feeling back to her body.

But then she doesn’t.

She’s too scared of sitting there alone. She’s too scared his door will remain locked.

The jingle of her keys on the lock of her apartment is the best sound Clarke has heard all day.

She walks in and the room is dark. The hallway light bulb must have burned out. It’s enough to let her know Bellamy is not here.

Again.

Shouldn’t be a surprise, really.

Her nose is tingling from the pressure behind her eyes. She scratches it forcefully, but it doesn’t pass. Her nails will leave red marks, probably. It’s just so damn itchy.

Clarke doesn’t think she saw Bellamy for more than a couple minutes a day this week. Before that, he was there, but busy, grading and prepping classes. Unwilling to talk to her except from the daily minimum of _I’ll use the shower now_ and _Can you take the trash out?_

She wonders if his bedsheets even smell like him anymore.

There’s no one home and it shouldn’t be a surprise.

It still is.

Her heart is pummeling uncomfortably against her ribcages; she can feel its beat all the way down to her thighs. _There’s an artery there, this is normal, _she thinks. It isn’t enough to calm her down.

Clarke’s vision is swimming, the rough shape of the furniture in the shadows distorted around her. There’s no use trying to reach the light switch on her left, so she just leans her back against the wall and closes her eyes vehemently. Tries counting her breaths. It doesn’t really work.

The cold of the wall seeps into her skin nastily: first her back, then down her arms, it spreads until she’s shivering all over.

She hugs herself only to find out her hands are shaking violently. The goddamn tremors have been constant companions lately, but this is something else. Even her teeth are chattering. Her entire body is an earthquake.

Is this what dying feels like? Or is she just going crazy?

The thought of Bellamy eventually coming home only to find her dead body on the entryway is terrifying and hilarious at the same time. She laughs and sounds hysterical: her mouth is wide open and then she’s sobbing like a child.

Clarke scrambles for purchase anywhere, hands going out blindly, but her body isn’t her own: it’s a feral thing, tightening around itself as she slides down onto the ground.

Oh God, she’s so weak. She shouldn’t be this weak. Isn’t this why she pushed everyone out? So she wouldn’t feel this weak anymore?

Her lungs hurt, as if she’s drowning on dry air.

She can hear herself crying loudly, but it’s distant, like the sound is reaching her through thick brick walls. It sounds like the baby that used to live above them, on 802, and cried every night at 2 a.m.

Then suddenly there is a pair of warm hands on her wrists, pulling her fingers down from where they buried themselves in her scalp. Her skin gets so hot at the touch she wonders if it’s burning her.

It takes a moment before she recognizes Bellamy crouching in front of her.

Clarke can see he’s talking, sees his lips moving, but can’t hear a fucking thing. She wants to hear the low timbre of his voice so much it’s like a physical ache, but nothing filters through the haze.

He must’ve realized she’s not understanding him, though, because his hands let go of her wrists to cover her cheeks, pressing her closer. His forehead touches hers and Clarke closes her eyes.

She feels his warm breath on her face, steady and strong, so unlike her erratic pants. She can hear his soothing tone now, faint over the ringing in her ears. She focus on that, concentrates on the wisps of his voice, grabs onto it like a lifeline. It’s like pulling at a thin thread at first, but he doesn’t stop. Whatever he’s saying, Clarke needs him to keep going.

The hysterical crying slowly fades into muffled whimpering. Her heart is still beating too fast and she’s still shaking like a leaf, though. Somewhere inside, a voice suggests she should be embarrassed. She should tell Bellamy she’s fine, he can go on to wherever he’s been going at nights.

He should leave her alone. She’ll be ok. She deserves this.

Clarke can’t, though. Instead, her fingers latch onto his shirt, gripping it with a white knuckled hold.

She’s only vaguely aware of his arms moving around her, across her back, then under her knees, and pulling her up with him as he stands and moves them both to the couch.

Bellamy doesn’t let go of her, only half-lies with Clarke on top of him, firmly in his embrace. Finally, the cold is giving way to his warmth. He’s always like a furnace. She hides her face in his chest, counting the way it moves up and down with every inhale and every exhale. She tries to mimic it.

Clarke has no idea how long has passed until her breathing evens and her shoulders stop shaking. She’s _exhausted_, but it doesn’t feel like dying anymore.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, I’ve got you.”

Something in her rib cage constricts and her breath falters.

“No, I mean it,” Clarke clears her throat, wills her voice to come out stronger and steadier, “I’m fine. You must have somewhere to be.”

“Clarke, stop that.” She doesn’t stop trying to detangle their limbs, her shaky hands reaching for balance so she can sit on her own. Bellamy huffs, frustrated, holds her arms against her body firmly while she fights him. He waits until she quiets and it doesn’t take too long, Clarke’s exhausted. She looks at him, resentful of how easy it is for him to overpower her – physically or otherwise. “You’re not _fine_.”

“I am! Seriously, this was –”

“A fucking panic attack.”

“No, don’t be so dramatic, Bellamy, I’m just tired—”

“Stop!” His voice comes out harder, harsher than he has spoken to her since they broke up. Clarke realizes then just how hesitant Bellamy has been with her these past few months. She _missed_ this Bellamy. She really, really shouldn’t.

But she did.

Or maybe she just missed him. In any shape, form or mood.

It’s a dangerous feeling, building up inside her chest, so she pushes it back down. Allows the anger simmering inside to take its place.

“No, you stop! I’m _telling_ you I’m fine, so just fucking leave already!” She half-shouts and it tastes good.

“You’re killing yourself.”

“I am not!” She finally manages to escape his grip, the momentum of the struggle making her slide all the way to the other end of the couch. She barely keeps herself from falling out, but at least she got her way. There’s a little dignity in that. “And even if I was, it’d be none of your goddamn business!”

Clarke lets indignation stoke the fire burning in her gut. Wishes it would consume her already.

“You don’t eat, you only sleep when you’re practically running into walls, you shut everyone out –” Bellamy keeps going as if she hasn’t said anything. “You’re killing yourself, that’s what you’re doing, and you think no one is going to notice?”

“Why do you care, anyway? You’re never even fucking _here_ anymore!”

“Don’t you understand?” Somehow, they gravitated back to each other while fighting. Clarke has no idea when either of them stood up, but her chin is raised furiously, right in his face, breathing in his rage. She can see when it seeps out of him, all at once, and he’s left sounding devastated, “I can’t watch you do that.”

“You’re a goddamn coward.” She spits.

“Yes, I am.” A spark ignite behind his eyes, enough that Bellamy sounds angry again, bitter. But when his fingers come up to her face, his touch is unbearably tender. She wants to rip them off. Clarke needs this fury, needs to feel this so she can push him out. Clarke can’t resist him if he’s soft. “I didn’t say anything when you told me you couldn’t do this anymore. I thought you needed some distance. I thought maybe it was me, maybe I was the one dragging you down. I thought you’d be better off, so I said nothing.”

“Bellamy…”

“But then you kept crawling into my bed at the end of your shifts and I kept making you the center of my entire fucking life and you somehow got _worse_. So I thought I wasn’t doing a good enough job, I was still too close and you were still suffering.”

Her eyes are watering. _This is all backwards_, _how did you get it so backwards?_

“I can handle you not wanting to be with me, even if it kills me. I can even handle not being anywhere near you. I can handle any fucking thing, if it means you’ll be happy.” Bellamy’s voice is barely above a whisper then. He moved his hands to cup the back of Clarke’s head, his fingers tangled in her curls are making her scalp tingle. “But you’re not happy, Clarke. You’re dying and I don’t know what to do to stop it.”

“You’re wrong.” She says, soft.

Bellamy pulls her closer until their foreheads touch, stares straight into her eyes.

“Am I?” He’s trembling a little and his voice wavers.

“You have to be.”

Bellamy laughs mirthlessly, tucks her head on his shoulder and presses his lips against her hair. Clarke clutches at the back of his shirt, presses as deep against the fabric as she can. Like this, she can feel Bellamy’s heart beating under her cheeks.

“What can I do?” He asks.

“This is helping.”

“This isn’t enough, babe.” Clarke closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. He’s not wrong, she knows it.

“I don’t know what to do either.”

“Talk to me. You don’t need to carry this alone.”

Clarke pulls away just enough to look at him. She notices there are dark circles under his eyes, Bellamy looks so tired it makes her chest hurt.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t you see that this is killing me too?” Bellamy’s studying her too. “I’d follow you to the grave, Griffin. I don’t think I know what else to do.”

“That’s what I’m scared of.”

“What? That I love you?”

“No, that loving me is going to do to you what it does to everyone.” Clarke shakes her head, takes a couple steps back. “You love more than anyone else, Bellamy. I’m terrified you’re going to be another one of my casualties.”

“You’re too late for that, Clarke.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” He sounds so sure. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I’m not stopping any time soon. I’m still here.”

Tears spring to Clarke’s eyes again.

“I’m a stubborn motherfucker. The only way you’re getting rid of me is if you don’t want me anymore.”

“I don’t know what to do.” She whispers again.

He extends his hand, a little hesitant. Clarke meets him halfway, fingers lacing through his fiercely. She can see his shoulders sag in relief.

“We can figure it out.” He whispers, warm palms steady against her shuddering one. “You and I.”

“Welcome back, Clarke,” Luna holds the door for her, her reassuring smile gracing her lips. Clarke smiles back. “Glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad to be back too.”

Clarke heads to the armchair by the window, her favorite seat. Around the room there are a few chaises and pillows, cozy and comfortable, but Clarke likes the way the sunlight filters through the window by her armchair. She tucks her bare feet under her legs, makes herself comfortable.

Luna sits in her chair too. It’s a familiar routine, albeit a fairly new one.

“You look good.”

“Thanks, I’m feeling better.” Clarke fiddles with the strap on her shoulder. Five weeks in, her clothes aren’t falling from her body anymore. “This was a good week.”

“I’m very happy to hear. Want to tell me what happened?”

Luna’s easy to talk to, but doesn’t let Clarke get away with shit. It’s one of her favorite things about her new therapist.

“I’ve been trying the breathing exercises you suggested. When I get – you know.”

“Anxious?”

Clarke gulps, “Yes, anxious.”

“That’s good. How have you been liking it?”

Clarke makes a face and the other woman smiles lightly.

“Not a whole lot, but. It’s better than nothing.” Luna seems to find her reluctance funny. “It helped me calm down a little.”

“That sounds useful.” She nods. “You’re feeling ok with your new meds?”

“Yes, thanks for recommending the psychiatrist. I still hating taking them, though.”

“There’s no shame in needing help. Your mom is a doctor and you’re a nurse. You know that when you’re sick, medication can help. This is no different.” Luna waits, analyzing her. Rationally, Clarke knows this is true. She just hates this truth. Thankfully, Luna moves on, “How’s Bellamy?”

“He’s – great, honestly.” Clarke bites her lower lip lightly. “Classes just let off for summer vacations. It’s his favorite part of the year for two weeks and then he starts to go crazy from the boredom. Bellamy’s not great at doing nothing.”

“And your relationship?”

Clarke has to take a deep breath.

“It’s so good I’m scared out of my mind.” She has to repress the grin from growing too wide.

“Still think something terrible is going to happen to him?” The fact that Luna takes her fears seriously is her favorite thing about her therapist. Clarke mulls the question over.

“Yes and no. He’s – his life was never the easiest. Some part of me _knows_ he’s going to be fine, that’s who he is. Bellamy pulled through for Octavia, he always pulls through for me too. I just worry he’ll never do it if its only for himself.”

“Do you worry he’s with you because he feels this need to help you?”

“Sometimes? It used to happen a lot. You know, before,” Clarke makes a gesture, “everything. But he’s been making a point of proving this is not the case.”

“You believe he loves you?”

“Yes,” this is an easy question. Clarke never doubted Bellamy loved her, that was always so obvious. That’s what Bellamy _does_. He’s a lover, pure and simple.

“And you love him too.” This, Luna doesn’t phrase as a question. It’s a given.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Luna nods approvingly again, one of her mannerisms. “What has you worried about him, then?”

“I’m worried he’ll love too much and never get enough love in return. I’m scared his heart will break. I’m scared he’ll give so much of himself there’s nothing left.”

“You just agreed you loved him.”

“I do. More than I know what to do with. But – I’m not like him. No one loves like him, least of all me.”

“Clarke,” Luna’s voice is gentle, “love isn’t a finite resource. You’re not taking something from Bellamy by letting him love you. You’re giving him something too. You love him, that makes him happy.”

“How do I know if it’s enough? How do I know I’m not going to ruin him?”

Luna’s hazel eyes are serious when she looks at Clarke.

“You don’t. That’s the beauty of human relationships. You just do your best not to break each other. You’re doing your best just by being here. Don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

“You should try telling Bellamy that.”

“He already knows all that.” Clarke shrugs.

“He’ll like to hear it regardless.”

When her session’s over, Bellamy’s waiting for her outside, two coffees in hand and that brilliant smile of his. The one that promises Clarke everything is fine, if she just allows herself to hold on.

She tucks her head under his in greeting, her lips graze the underside of his jaw faintly.

“Hi.” Clarke’s grinning too.

“Good session?”

“Yeah, I think I like this therapy thing.”

Bellamy chuckles and kisses her temple.

“Good. I heard you also like this latte thing, so here’s one.”

She wraps her fingers around the Styrofoam cup he’s offering, kisses him briefly in thanks. Bellamy places his hand on the small of her back and she turns to leave the building with him. She can see the cloudless blue skies waiting on the other side.

The world always feel a little less dangerous when they step together into daylight, so Clarke takes a deep breath, and lets it go.

_It's all me, just don't go_

_Meet me in the afterglow_

**Author's Note:**

> Funny little fact: The prompt I started off of was actually a fluffy one. Yeah, I know. Believe it or not, it was "exes who still act like they're together and both are too scared to point it out in case the other stops doing what they're doing". I obviously don't know how prompts work, so this is what we ended up with.
> 
> If you liked it, please please please tell me as I crave validation like water. Also remember to drink water.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I can also be found on tumblr (@pepperish)
> 
> Love, Jess


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